


All or Nothing

by orphan_account



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Angst, F/M, Smut, ambivalent angsty smut, given all the lying, spies using each other, which may have shades of dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't meant for this to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually do this kind of thing, but the angst and ambivalence around Michael and Sonya's encounter in All or Nothing (s7e06) really appealed to me, so I wanted to wallow in it a little.

Improvising. It's what he's best at. 

The truth is, he'd forgotten that Sonya would still be at the loft. When he sees the light in the window, his stomach turns inside out. He's lost his focus, and that can be deadly this deep inside a job. You have to be on, all the time. When you see an opening, you have to be ready to take it. 

It's impossible not to think about another stormy night where he stumbled home like this, soaked to the skin, hopeless. But it's not Fiona waiting for him this time. It's not cold, but he's shaking, because he knows what has to happen. Sonya's sitting on the bed, and their eyes meet, and everything is already set in motion. He could stop it. But he won't. 

Because it's going to work. If anything will help him win her trust, it's this. 

It feels like an excuse. 

He's lost everything, he tells her, and she believes him because he's telling the truth, or enough of it to camouflage the lies. You have to use some truth, if you want to be believed. This time, though, it's a little too close to the bone. Bad enough that the cracks are starting to show, but that it has to be here, now, like this? It's a cruel joke. But he takes his pain and rage and self-disgust, and he uses them. It's almost too easy to slip into character: Michael Westen, washed-up spy working for the dark side, desperate, alone, finally losing control. When he kisses Sonya, presses her back down to the bed, the nagging worry in the back of his mind, the one he can't afford to look at right now, is how little acting it takes. It's been so _long_. Not since before the Dominican Republic, not since Fiona. His cover in the DR hadn't required even casual encounters. Nine months of being drunk, violent, alone; no more than he deserved. 

But he'd thought there would be something on the other side of that. He'd thought it would be easier to remember himself, back in Miami. It's not. Staying at the burnt-out loft, working with Fiona, it's too much. 

He really is a washed up loner who's lost all his friends. And he has to finish this job. Whatever it takes. 

Right now, what it takes is Sonya's tongue in his mouth, his hand on her breast, the silent struggle to get each other's clothes off, _now_. There are no words between them; she yanks at his buttons, peels off his wet shirt. Her blonde hair scatters across his pillow as she arches her back, moaning; he's got his hand between her legs, found her hot and wet. 

He doesn't even have condoms. He hadn't meant for this to happen. Not so soon, not like this. Of course he's seen the way Sonya looks at him; he's been getting in her space, playing with her attraction. Setting up something that could be useful. He hadn't planned to take it this far, but he'd known it might be necessary. To keep a cover intact, he's done plenty of things he wouldn't ordinarily do. He's used people. He's used himself. You do what you have to.

But this is a dangerous game. It may be possible to hold yourself aloof emotionally from interrogation, from torture, to stay in character with a gun to your head and a finger tightening on the trigger. But it's easier to distance yourself from pain and fear than it is from pleasure. He has to give some of himself to this to make it convincing. He can't fake his hard-on, can't not react when she's palming him through his pants, dragging down his zipper. 

And then she's reaching for him, guiding him in, and he's closing his eyes as he sinks into her. 

_—sparring with Fiona right here in this loft, the sweaty, naked aftermath a foregone conclusion—_  
_—Fi on top of him, laughing her wicked laugh, ruthless in taking her pleasure—_  
_—his wrists handcuffed to the radiator, Fi with her hair swept aside, her mouth hot against him, teasing until he's begging for it—_  


Fiona, walking away from him. _It's already over._

He draws a ragged breath, pulls out slowly, pushes back in fast. Sonya seems to like that; she gasps, wrapping her legs around his hips, rising to meet him. Now that he's started, he can't stop, and it's not like he wants this to last. So he lets go, as much as he dares, and fucks her like he means it, urgent and a little rough.

It would be careless and stupid to assume that Sonya is any less sharp than he is; he can't trust anything about her. She could be seducing him to ensure his loyalty, just as he's seducing his way into her organization. She could be faking her orgasm, which comes so soon it takes him by surprise—but there's nothing theatrical about her grimace and gasp, the sudden tightening of her hands on his hips. Faking, unfortunately, is not an option for him; ironic that, for the sake of deception, there's no getting around that particular moment of honesty. 

He's not sure he even knows what honesty is anymore. Maybe Sonya is doing this with as much calculation as he is. Or as little. Maybe this is just two people getting what they need from each other. A hollow laugh catches in his throat; he turns it to a groan. Almost done, he thinks, wanting it, dreading it. 

Sonya rolls her hips, tightens around him, and he plays out the last of his frayed control, faking another groan.

And then it's real.


End file.
